How The Monkees really Got Together
by SwimmingInADuck
Summary: Yet another one of those stories... Well, as of right now the only teenage girls popping in are for cameos... But to the point! This is our version of how The Monkees would have gotten together in the television universe... This is basically a bunch of humour and Monkees references, with a whole heap of unimportant time travel thrown in for good measure. Beware the pen thief.
1. Micky is a Human

AN: _Well hello and welcome to the dangerous thing that is our first joint fanfiction. Though technically Cat wrote this part. My part is soon to come!_ **So you still have time to run screaming, don't worry.** _EHEM... Just go read... it's amazing... OH Right... disclaimer. What was I supposed to say for that part again? _**Um... How about the fact that we don't actually own the Monkees? (If we did, oh my goodness, Mike would never have put his fist through that wall, I swear...) **_Oh, and also none of this actually happened except for the occasional reference and whatnot. So go have fun and try not to die okay? Okay. Bye for now!_

Micky is a human.

Now that this has been established, don't be fooled. The other Monkees are also humans. Last time we checked.

Of course, the thing about Micky is that he is apparently really stubborn and refuses to communicate with our muses.

* * *

Micky was bored and in a restaurant. Micky being Micky, he began to hit things around him rhythmically for no apparent reason.

This stopped when he realized that the "drum" he had used was, in fact, someone's shoulder.

This would come back to haunt him, especially a few seconds later when he was forced to leave the place without actually having had food. Micky, feeling insulted, threatened never to come back. The man with the shoulder was the manager and therefore really couldn't care less.

Micky muttered about how this never would have happened back in Sandusky, Ohio, conveniently forgetting that he had spent all of one summer there, and that was for a family reunion. (During which he had informed everyone that he lived there, mostly because he liked the name.)

"Well," he told himself, "you're going to be late for that audition anyway." Micky stopped, blinked, and realized he was absolutely right and not merely consoling himself.

George Michael Dolenz ran as fast as he could. It wasn't very fast at all, but that doesn't really matter because this is only a back-story (and not much of one at that) and nobody cares whether or not he made it to the audition on time.

He might have bumped into a short young man, or someone with a green wool hat, or a blond boy, but Micky didn't notice. He was late, after all, and living on his own as an actor, late was merely another in a long list of things he couldn't afford.

_REVIEW. NOW. But you only need to criticize Cat because she wrote this one. _**...WHAT was that? **_Loving, sisterly friendship. Okay, ignore us, just type in the little box below!_


	2. And Davy's Grandfather Stared

AN: **HI! Prudence wrote this, so naturally I must write the author's note... Because that makes sense. I can't type right now, so beware. **_But I have to interject somewhere! This is my interjection: WE ARE TWO TEENAGE GIRLS DO YOU REALLY THINK WE OWN THE MONKEES?!_ **We wish... Hee-hee. More seasons... turn the show into a variety show like they wanted because that would be awesome... DAYDREAMING! RIGHT! FOCUSING! Ok, not really. Muahahaha. I have kidnapped the AN. So we don't own it, and the thing about the backwards horse riding is a lie, just like the cake which our friends love so much...**_Not that we actually play Portal... But our friends are fellow geeks. OKAY GO READ! This is only long because I left Cat alone with the computer while I went to get some MILK!_

* * *

Davy is a Brit. Need we say more? He has the strange ability to attract the opposite gender at all times. Though most of them seem to be blonde. This has led us to have discussions about whether he is actually human or not. We are 95% sure that he is despite all the evidence to the contrary.

Davy was born. His grandfather popped into the room and looked at Davy's mother like she was insane. Mr. Davy Jones had to be released from the hospital early because all the nurses wanted to take him home. Thankfully, the doctor (not the time travelling one) was a brunette and therefore clear-headed. She smuggled Davy and his parents out of the hospital in the dead of night.

In school, Davy decided that he would take up theatre. This made the girls swoon ever more for the young lad. Davy's grandfather had to shoo them away like flies. When his director told him he had talent, he decided that he would have fun with it. He landed the role of the Artful Dodger in _Oliver!_ but he still wanted to be a jockey.

Davy learned to be a jockey but he had a tendency to get on the horse backwards. After many years of this, his instructor said, "Davy, you'll never be a jockey." Davy happily agreed, knowing his grandfather would do a happy dance when he found out that there would be no more horse poo tracked into the house, and trotted off into the sunset sitting backwards on his horse Peggy.

Because Davy was out of a potential job, he sat around his house for few weeks moping and singing "Reviewing the Situation" from _Oliver._ Suddenly on a Friday, Davy had an epiphany. "Acting!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. He accidentally woke his grandfather up from a nap. Davy was soon on the net plane to Hollywood California. From far away, he could almost hear someone banging on wheels at a tire shop, as though calling him to California.

AN: **The Prudence is eating dinner, and making snide comments in the background. **_It's yummy! OMNOMNOMNOMNOM. REVIEW! Pweeese? And we mean it. We're not those kind of authors who are like "REVIEW" and then you review and feel awkward because you're reviewing every chapter and each review is longer then the chapter. Just review. We like feedbag. _**For those of you NOT her, she means 'feedback'... I find myself questioning my life choices when watching my friends. Except not. Review!**


	3. Peter is Definitely Not a Dummy

**Yay! Finally another chapter in this. Sorry about the wait; Peter was being more stubborn than Micky about the whole muse thing. It was worth it, I think. Prudence can do the disclaimer, since I wrote this (translation: I'm lazy. Prudence, do the disclaimer or I will eat you). **_She's so picky. Good grief. Umm... Okay so beware, there's insanity here... Oh wait. I need to read this one... HOLD ON... Okeydokey. So it's really good. ANYWAY. Anything you recognize we did not invent or do not own... :D Have fun yup. KK bye!_

Peter is very human indeed - in fact, possibly more so than most other humans. It has been said by a reliable source that he has a face, and a very nice face at that. Peter has also been called a dummy, but that is patently untrue, because he is Peter.

* * *

Peter Tork was playing his trombone when his phone rang. He clambered over the back of the sofa to retrive the telephone from the sink.

"Peter Tork. No, I don't fix blenders."

"Peter!"

A shrill voice caused Peter to pull away from the earpiece. Giving the device an aggrieved look, he gingerly held it up to his ear once more.

"Hello, Auntie Grizelda."

"Peter, have you gotten a job?"

Peter blinked in confusion; his great-aunt knew he was a musician, and her mind was as sharp as ever, so why did she bother asking? Maybe, Peter decided, she meant a specific gig. Perhaps she was in town and wanted to hear him play. (Stranger things had happened.) "Well, I have an audition-"

"Good, so you're free to move to California. I'm getting on in years, Peter, and this way you won't be such a layabout and will be doing something worthwhile. I'll expect you on the first." There was a click.

Peter was utterly confused; he wouldn't describe himself as a layabout. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure what a layabout was - the word sounded vaguely uncomplimentary, which was the sort of thing he generally tried to avoid.

Cruel-sounding words aside, though, she was his aunt and Peter figured he had better help her out. She was probably very lonely, after all.

Within the month, Peter was standing under a palm tree outside an airport, trying to figure out where his relative lived.

Peter thought that he should help Grizelda find somebody; she most likely ordering Peter around because she had no one else. With that goal in mind, he set off down the street, deciding to simply follow the ghostly, faraway sound of someone drumming on a tabletop. At least he might find someone who knew their way around Los Angeles.

AN: **Oh, wow. This was vaguely serious, or at least not as crazy as Micky and Davy. What have I done? Gaa... Oh well. And Peter would totally keep his telephone in the sink. I'm completely sane - well, no. Not really at all, but yeah...**


	4. Mr Snodgrass Yelled

_AN:_ Hi!_ It's Prudence back with more insanity! And right now Cat can't interject because I stole her phone and she's reading Something by FlowerChild17 on her computer so she has no idea what I'm doing! Oh by the way check out above mentioned author she rocks my socks. Alright, well it's been a while since we've read about the boys so I hope you enjoy and I hope you realise that we don't own The Monkees... Anyway, this has been really long so just read Mike's story. _

Mike loved cars and guitars. That was for certain. Therefore, taking a road trip to California with only him and a guitar in teh vehicle seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do. The young man said goodbye to Aunt Kate, his cousin Lucy, and his other cousin who he could never remember the name of (You know, the knock-kneed, stringy-haired one, Clara.), got in his Winebago and drove off.

The radio in Mike's car hadn't worked for about three years, five months, and three days, maybe even longer, that was just when he bought the car. Without the music playing at him, Mike felt he had to play the music at it, so he sang and would occasionally try to grab the guitar case out of the back of the van and play it at the car, but then he realised that he actually had to drive if he wanted to get to California. You see, driving usually involved two hands on teh steering wheel, and plaing the guitar usually involved two hands on the guitar, and since Mike wasn't Shiva and didn't have opposable toes the last time he checked, his attempts failed... Miserably. Usually with his Winebago in a ditch.

After about two weeks, Mike was in Fresno, California. He had never liked wine... or grapes for that matter... especially not wine grapes, so this part of the country didn't really appeal to him. He figured that he might want to sleep in a bed for a night before he pushed on to Los Angeles. Following many signs and little blue lines on the map, he ended up at a nice-ish looking hotel and checked in for the night. Finally he was able to play his guitar without crashing, and that's all he did all night. Mike wrote a song about lost love, wine, and drunkeness in Fresno, since that is what was on his mind.

In the room next to Michael Nesmith, an old man couldn't sleep. The young'in kept playing his guitar, and he wasn't even that good. Mr. Snodgrass put on his dressing robe and fuzzy slippers that his wife ahd made him and shuffled next door. He punded on the not-so-strong wooden door as hard as his arthritic hands could manage. A young lad in a green woolen hat opened the door, blonde guitar in his hand. Mr. Snodgrass gave him a good talking to, which shut the young boy up.

As soon as the old man left Mike's door, he collapsed on his bed and tried to fall asleep, but there was music on his mind. He started to imagine a drum line to the song he had written earlier, and then he realised that he wasn't imagining things. Someone next door was banging on things and hoping that they sounded like drums. Mike smiled and hoped that onld Mr. Snodgrass would go yell at whoever the aspiring drummer was, and promptly fell asleep.

The next morning, Mike Nesmith was off again. On his way to Los Angeles to see what awaited him there. Hopefully there would be no more Mr. Snodgrasses.


	5. Davy Drinks Tea, Micky Blows It Up

_AN: _**Hey there, people! I have written the next installment of our epic tale. I'm sure you can guess what happens in this... Also, see if you can spot the allusions. There are several; they make me happy, and I had entirely too much fun writing this. Anyway, Prudence can write stuff (meaning the disclaimer) now, because I have to type all this up and it's fairly long (at least in comparison to the backstories). **_Yay for long-ness! Look I'm invading. _

Davy had decided that, even if he always rode the horse backwards, being a jockey would be easier than trying to find work as an actor. Of course, he was never going to admit this fact to his grandfather, because then his grandfather would probably insist that Davy return to England, and Davy didn't want to go back. Worse still, he couldn't board the plane and then leave, as he didn't own a parachute.

The word _foreshadowing_ danced across Davy's mind briefly, but he ignored it in favor of dodging a curly-haired young man who was absolutely not looking where he was going.

Davy sighed and kept walking. He had an audition to get to, after all.

* * *

Micky arrived, panting, at the studio where the audition was to take place. He blinked at the copy of the ad he'd seen, which was hung beside the door. "4 insane boys," it read.

Well, he had been reliably informed that he fit the criteria.

Micky took a deep breath and promptly broke into a coughing fit.

"Are you all right?" He turned, mostly out of curiousity as to who had a British accent in this place, to see a short boy looking at him with what could have been concern, but was more likely a fervent wish to get Micky to stop blocking the door.

Micky gave the other boy a weak smile as he attempted to catch his breath.

"No, not really."

The short kid - how old was he, anyway? He couldn't have been taller than 5' 3" and had a somewhat soft-looking face - looked at Micky for a moment more, then shrugged. "May I?" He pantomimed walking past Micky.

Micky gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry." He stepped aside to let the shorter - younger? - boy through.

"So what's your name? I guess we're auditioning for the same thing, since we're both here. You're British, right? How come you're so far from home? Hey, since you're British, have you met the Beatles? Have you met Rex Harrison? He's British. Have you ever met anybody British? I've always liked British people. Or are you supposed to say English? I can never remember... When was the last time you had tea and crumpets? Hey, isn't it teatime right now? I had tea and crumpets a while ago; I actually liked it a lot, but then I spilled some of my latest chemistry experiment in the teacup and it exploded. Have you-"

"My name's David Jones," Micky's companion blurted, looking a little bit deranged and a little bit desperate. Micky wondered why. "And - no, I've never met the Beatles! You must be joking!"

"Oh, hey, sorry, David. I was just curious." Micky was quiet for a while, then added, "Seriously, though, who knew tea was that flammable-"

David Jones let out a cry like a wounded animal and fled to the other side of the room.

"Weird kid," Micky said to himself.

He sat down nearby, in between two chairs whose occupants were doing their best to look as though they hadn't been listening in.

"Hey, there. I'm Micky," Micky said to the man on the left. He gave Micky a faint, polite smile.

"Stephen," he introduced himself. Micky waited, but Stephen showed no further inclination to speak.

"I'm Micky," he announced to the man on his other side.

"Harry," the man responded before beginning to hum something to himself.

Micky looked at the men on either side of him and settled into his seat. "Right."

It was probably the quietest Micky had ever been.

* * *

Davy sighed as he left his audtion. It had been dismal. He supposed the fuzzy-headed crazy one had gotten the part; it just didn't seem to be Davy's day.

He wished that he had stayed in bed.

Davy stopped at a small diner, hoping he had enough at least for something to drink.

No sooner had Davy sat down than the man from the audition came in, looking about as dejected as Davy felt.

"I knew I should have straightened my hair," the boy said to himself as he sat at the counter next to Davy.

Davy stared fixedly at his cup of tea, willing the other actor (musician?) not to notice him.

It didn't work, though fewer girls winked at Davy than was normal in the few seconds that followed.

"Oh, hey. Whoa, is that tea? I was only kidding, you know, but wow. You're drinking tea, man, that's great. Can't forget your heritage, after all." The other man blinked, then stuck out his hand. "Don't know if I said this, but my name's Micky Dolenz. I'm from... Huh. Where am I from?"

And the rest is history.

* * *

Wait. You actually want to know what happened next?

Well, aren't you demanding?

* * *

"And then they tell me that curly hair isn't the sort of image they want," Micky said. Davy watched him, hoping he looked as though he were paying attention. "And, see, the irony of it is that I normally straighten my hair. I just didn't have time today." Micky was quiet for a bit, then added, "How about you?"

Davy managed a weak grin. "They said I was too short."

Micky frowned, beating his fingers on the table in an absent-minded rhythm. "That's a drag. How tall are you, exactly?"

"5' 3" in boots."

Micky blinked at him shock. "That's - really? Hey, David, you could've been a jockey!"

Davy stared at him for a moment.

Then it was Micky's turn to stare blankly as the English boy roared with laughter.

"I was going to be a jockey, actually," Davy said once he'd calmed down a bit. "I always rode the horse wrong."

Micky smiled. "So, I saw this ad in the paper the other day. They were looking for some pretty short actors."

Davy grinned. "Oh, really?"

* * *

There. The happy end. You're all so picky.

**AN: Ta-da. Don't worry, I love you all, but I couldn't resist. Also, allusions are fun! I was going to have Micky and Davy not like each other at all until they get stuck someplace or in some situation together, but I figure I can just do that when - ****_(ok, P, interrupt me with something funny here so I don't give them spoilers. Do not leave this in here or I will eat_**_ you.) SHUSH. No spoilers. We are not River Song. Ummmmmm...what am I supposed to say? All my wittiness went into making my drama teacher crack up.. that was fun.  
_**Also, review, please. It makes us happy and then we send slightly dizzying responses to people. Because dizziness from messages is a thing that happens now, apparently.**


	6. Davy Feels Like a Broken Record

**Hi there! I apologize profusely for the insane wait, for those readers out there. Peter was not communicating well with my brain. He's my favorite, but apparently writing him is difficult for me. Poop. OH well, the next insanely long wait is all on Prudence! Feel free to throw tomatoes, everyone! (...it was a joke, I promise...) **_Then next time I see her, she'll give me a tomato. _

* * *

It wasn't that Davy didn't like Micky. It was just that there were times when the taller boy's exuberance annoyed Davy to no end.

This was one of those days.

Micky had bounded up to Davy, informing him that he _needed _to follow Micky, right _now_, come on, come _on!_

Except that it was Micky, so it came out more like:

"Youneedtocomehere,followmerightnowcomeoncomeon, Davy!"

With a percussion accompaniment, too, apparently, as Micky blurted all of this out while pounding on a nearby wall.

As it turned out, Micky was in a commercial for a restaurant. Apparently, Davy's attendance was mandatory in spite of the fact that nobody aside from Micky had any idea who Davy was.

So Davy chatted with a very nice girl named Mary, who ran the restaurant. She had decided to create a commercial in order to gain business, as Mary was in danger of losing to restaurant to a rich businessman who also happened to be part of a crime syndicate.

Davy felt a chill, which informed readers will identify as a bad case foreshadowing.

"Excuse me?"

A man who looked rather like a puppy dog had just approached. (No, the author's opinions are not colouring this narrative at all, now hush!)

"Are you the hostess?"

Mary smiled. "Yes, sir. I'm in charge of almost everything; how may I help you?"

"I'd like to make a reservation for my great-aunt, this Saturday night."

"Of course! Name?"

The man looked confused. "Well, it's Peter, but why-"

"Your aunt's name," Mary explained.

"Oh! Grizelda," he answered, smiling.

Davy snorted quietly. Mary looked at him sharply, but Peter frowned worriedly.

"Here," he offered. "Do you need this?" Peter held up a handkerchief.

"Oh, no - no, that's all right, thanks," Davy replied, trying not to laugh.

"All right, but you should be careful. Colds are horrible," Peter warned.

"So, what do you do, Peter?" Mary asked, still giving Davy a stern look. Davy did his best to look innocent and attractive. He realized he had to dial it back a bit when Mary's eyes began to get starry.

"It depends on the day, but mostly I play music," Peter answered. "Do you both work here?"

"No, I'm here with a friend. He's working on that advertisement." Davy held out a hand. "I'm Davy Jones."

"Nice to meet you," Peter said. "Is that what they're doing over there? No wonder they shouted at me," Peter commented. "I was afraid I might have done something wrong."

"Oh, don't worry, Peter. You couldn't have known," Mary reassured him.

"I know," Peter said. "I just hate to think that I've kept them here for longer than they needed to be."

"That's very sweet of you, Peter," Mary told him. "Before I go, Peter, how many and what time for that reservation?"

"Two people, at six," he answered as Mary walked over to scowl at the actors.

"Are you an actor, too?" Peter asked Davy.

"As of right now, I'm out of work. I've been auditioning, but they're always looking for taller actors." Davy sighed. "I should've stuck with musicals back home. I played the Artful Dodger, you know, in Oliver. I was surrounded by girls," he added wistfully.

Peter smiled ancouragingly. "I'm sure you'll be famous someday, Davy."

"Thanks, Peter."

"Davy!"

Davy sighed as Micky bounced up. "Peter, this is Micky. Micky, this is Peter."

"Hey, Pete! It's nice to meet you! So you're a friend of Davy's? Why are you here?"

"Micky!" Davy interrupted.

Peter was smiling. "no, I just met Davy. I was here to make a dinner reservtion for my aunt."

"Your aunt?" Micky wrinkled his nose. "Why can't she do it?"

"Micky!" Davy scolded again, feeling a bit like a broken record. Micky had a point, of course, but that didn't mean Davy wasn't going to scold him about it.

Peter looked slightly lost. "I don't know... But I came out here to help her, so I might as well do what she asks me to..."

"Where are you from?" Micky inquired brightly.

"East Coast -" Peter began. Micky babbled over him.

"Whoa, really? You came all the way across the country? You must really love you aunt -"

Peter was starting to look uncomfortable, so Davy said, "Micky!" one last time.

Well, he hoped it was the last.

"Sorry," Micky said sheepishly.

Peter smiled. "That's all right, Micky."

"But really, she must be a great woman, right?"

Peter looked incredibly worried, as though he couldn't quite figure out what to say. "I... well, she doesn't know much about music, or me... But she's family, and I think she's lonely."

"You have a good heart, Pete," Micky said solemnly.

Peter smiled beatifically. "Thank you, Micky!"

Davy resolved that Peter smiling was a good thing. He did it a lot, actually. Davy still got the feeling, though, that this "Aunt Grizelda" person was not conducive to smiling, good-hearted musicians. He pulled Micky aside after Peter left.

"Micky," Davy hissed, "that aunt of his can't be good for him."

Micky grinned. "So, do we have a plan of attack?"

* * *

Grizelda Thorkelson couldn't understand why, but when Peter wasn't running errands for her he was always getting dragged away by long-haired men in various occupations.

There had been a British plumber, who said that Peter had the perfect eye for clogged drains, and a piano tuner who had insisted on invading Grizelda's house in spite of her lack of a piano. On one memorable occasion, two lion tamers had appeared at the front door and pulled Peter away from the house, completely ignoring Grizelda's shouts.

Oddly enough, they were always either overly happy Americans or small Brits.

Grizelda just couldn't understand it.

**An:Ta-da! I did it! This is less humourous than the others, I feel like, but ah well... You have the next chapter to worry about now... **_Oh those darn lion tamers... Well net one is on me!_


	7. And Micky Swerved

**AN:** _Well hi y'all! Look at me! I didn't take forever like _someone _I could mention._ **Hey, I did the best I could! Peter is stubborn! As is Micky! **Anyway,_ hope you enjoy this chapter, try and count how many times I overused "man" as a friendly term... Cheers! _

"Hey guys! Let's go to San Francisco." Micky blurted.

Davy just happened to be in the middle of a sip of ginger beer and after hearing that, he practically choked. Peter started to tap Davy on the back, a gesture that was probably meant to help with the coughing...

"Davy, man, what's up?" Micky asked, utterly confused.

"Maybe you just startled him, Mick?" Peter wondered.

"Oh, jeez man, I'm sorry, I mean, it was just an idea, I didn't realize that you were in your own little world, I mean, you are little, no offense, but I just thought that -" Davy cut his very energetic friend off.

"Micky, Micky, Micky!" The Brit got Micky's attention after the third try "You didn't startle me, man, it's just that, well..." Davy mumbled something that neither of the other two understood.

"What Davy? There's pickles in your ear?" Peter guessed.

"No," Davy tried again "I don't want to go to San Francisco because...well..." Once again the last part of Davy's sentence was cut off

"Davy, San Francisco is rad, man! Why don't you want to go?"

"Hippies!" Davy snapped, a little too loudly.

"But Davy, I-" Peter's eyes gave off the puppy-dog look and he hung his head.

"Davy?! You're scared of hippies?!" Micky questioned.

"_Micky!_" Once again Davy felt like a broken record.

He didn't want Peter to know about this deep seated fear, and was feeling really awful after blurting it out.

"Well, Davy, I mean, if you're scared of me, maybe we shouldn't hang around each other anymore..." Peter sadly took a bite of his waffle and sniffled.

"No man, that's not what I mean." Davy desperately looked to his curly-haired friend for help.

"What Davy means is, Pete, is that he doesn't like big hoards of flower-waving-long-haired-weirdos." Micky tried to comfort his young friend.

"Yeah Peter, it's in the numbers, man."

Peter weakly smiled. "Okay Davy. Then maybe going to where there are a lot of them would help. I mean, sometimes facing your fear is the best thing to so when you're scared of something."

"Hey, that's a good idea Peter. Are you feeling okay?" Micky asked, trying to break the tension.

"Is there something going around? Oh no... what if I get so sick I can't go to San Francisco, and what if I get Auntie Grizelda sick too?!" Peter's eyes got huge again.

"Peter, it was a joke." Davy patted his friend's shoulder.

"Oh..."

* * *

"You're _what?!"_ Auntie Grizelda screeched at her nephew.

"I'm going to San Francisco with Micky and Davy. We'll be gone for three days. Maybe you should get some hearing aids Auntie Grizelda. I'm talking at a fairly normal volume." Peter smiled at his Aunt, even though he was inwardly cringing from the sound of her voice.

"I don't need hearing aids, idiot boy! And you came here to help me, not flounce off to some city filled with drugs, sex, and God knows what kind of people!" The ancient woman crossed herself.

"Alright Auntie Grizelda, I guess you're right. I won't go." Peter sulked upstairs and grabbed the phone.

After what seemed like about seven rings, Micky picked up, "Hiya Pete!" As always, the young man was extremely hyper.

"Hi Micky." Peter said sadly.

"What's the matter, Peter?"

"Auntie Grizelda won't let me go to San Francisco." Micky could _hear _Peter's puppy-dog eyes over the phone.

"Hey, don't worry Pete. Davy and I will get you out of there! You're going to come with us, no matter what!"

"How?" The young man tried not to get too hopeful.

"Well, we can always bring back the lion tamers..."

* * *

Three young men could be seen driving on the highway, piled into a Mini Cooper. The cars behind them seemed to be keeping a considerable distance away from the Mini because of its very sporadic, curly-haired driver.

"Micky, man, how did you ever pass your driving test?" Davy asked from the seemingly roomy backseat.

"I didn't." Micky responded.

Peter promptly put his hand over his mouth and turned a shade of green that no one could have pulled off.

"Hey-hey Mick? Maybe we should stop and let Pete take a rest, what do you think?" Davy was starting to turn a lovely shade of grey himself.

"Sure, how about here?" The long-haired driver swerved in front of a few cars and bumped over something that may or may not have been a traffic island.

They pulled up to a service station and Micky slammed on the break. Peter ran to the bathroom, but not before forgetting to take off his seat belt.

"Maybe I should take the wheel when we get going again?" Davy offered.

"Davy, man, you couldn't reach the pedals. Plus, I'm doing fine! Don't worry, we'll be to San Francisco in no time."

Two days later Davy, Peter, and Micky were lost. They'd been following all the little blue lined on the map that led to San Francisco, but they ended up in the middle of countless woods.

"Left." Peter commented about two feet before the turn "Micky, look, there's a big blue line here, maybe that will help." The curly haired young man took his hands off the wheel and pulled the map up in front of him, tracing lines with his finger.

"Micky..." Davy began. Once again the broken record sensation washed over him. "Micky! MICKY!" He yelled just before the car hit the ditch.

"Well, that got us somewhere." Peter remarked.

"Hey, y'all! Watch where you're going!" Said a very Texan voice.

The three friends peered out their respective windows. Micky and Davy to be met with a tall, slender figure in high waisted pants, a button up shirt, and a green wool hat. Peter, being on the other side of the car found himself having a nice, long staring contest with some friendly trees.

"Sorry, man, we weren't paying attention." Davy apologised to the rather imposing figure.

"Yeah well, it's alright. You all want some help getting this old carriage outta this here mud?" He asked.

"Gee, that'd be great!" Micky enthusiastically pulled his two friends out of the car.

"Micky! I was have a lovely conversation with those trees!" Peter exclaimed, feeling put-out.

"Isn't that dumb?" Micky asked no one in particular.

After getting said car "outta" said mud, Davy noticed the very totaled Winnebago in front of them. The hat man saw Davy staring.

"Yep, that was my car. Now it's ready for the junkyard." The young man had a fleeting look of sadness on his face before returning to the stoic Texan he was. Peter sniffled at the sad story.

"Maybe we could get some waffles to make things better?" He asked.

"Sure Pete." Davy patted his friend on the back.

"Where're you headed, stranger?" Micky asked Hat-Man.

"Well I was on my way to San Francisco, but I suppose I've gotta call Aunt Kate and see if we can arrange for me to come home..."

"Hey! We're going to San Francisco too! Come and join us!" Davy exclaimed.

"Gee, that's awful nice of you," The young man stuck out his hand. "Mike Nesmith."

"Micky Dolenz."

"Davy Jones."

"I see a diner up there, they'd have waffles."

"He's Peter Tork." Micky said.

* * *

The Mini Cooper was full of four young men pouring over a now mangled map swerving their way to San Francisco.

**AN: **_Well there you have it, all four Monkees together! :) _**PETER! I'm sorry, but agh! I will never look at waffles without feeling an overwhelming sense of adorable-overload.  
...wow... um... pretend you didn't just read that. Hey, Cat, redundant much? Anyway, review before I squeal over the general amazingness of this chapter even more. And YAY! They're together as they should always be! (...in case you weren't paying attention.)**


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